2. Some Things Change, Some Things Stay the Same
Chapter two
Some Things Change, Some Things Stay the Same
KARA
Leaning down, I kiss Cormac's forehead and rub my knuckles over Miles' head. The dog prefers sleeping with Cormac because he doesn't have to fight Gobby for prime real estate on Fitz's bed.
There's no question who wins in a contest of wills between them and it's never our gentle dog.
I kissed the twins goodnight before taking Cormac to bed. Mick and Fitz are tucking the girls in tonight. Our twelve-year-old thinks he's too old to get tucked in himself but he's happy to help settle his younger siblings. Which allows him to enjoy the ritual without feeling like we're babying him.
The abandoned cocoa mugs are gone and soft jazz plays from the smart speaker instead of Christmas carols when I reach the living room.
My husband lounges on the sofa, his tie and suit jacket long gone and his black dress shirt unbuttoned down the front, revealing his tattoos.
The only light is the muted glow of the lights on the tree and the fire in our gas fireplace.
"Cozy." I join him on the sofa, straddling his hips and settling my butt on his hard thighs.
He grips my hips and pulls me forward so my ladybits are pressing down on an already impressive bulge. "I'm sorry I was late."
"Being a mob underboss isn't a nine-to-five job. I get that." Is it hard sometimes?
Yes.
But Mick is who he is, and I wouldn't have him any other way.
"Brogan wants to step down."
Shock freezes the air in my lungs and I stare at Mick's stoic features. "What? Why? Is he sick?"
"No. His health is fine, but Enoch got accepted into Sagewind."
"That's wonderful! Hope must be so pleased, but why would that prompt my father to step down from his position?" I ask. "It's a boarding school, isn't it?"
Considered one of the top ten schools of the arts in the U.S., Sagewind Academy of Fine Arts is often compared to Interlochen or Juilliard’s pre-college program. Only, its environment is a lot more intimate and holistic.
And unlike most high schools, it's only a two year program available to students who get the majority of their core curriculum classes out of the way their Freshman and Sophomore years at other schools.
It's important to Hope that Enoch is allowed to express his artistic talents, something he would have been denied while they were still living with the AOG. She's supported him fully in his efforts to fulfill the requirements of acceptance for the prestigious art school.
My father has been surprisingly supportive as well. Probably because Enoch has no intention of joining the mob. As Brogan's stepson, rather than his biological child, Enoch has that choice.
Mick stares down at my breasts, lust and appreciation sparking in his intent gaze. "Students are allowed to live at home if their home is within a thirty-minute drive to the school."
"And Hope wants to move to New Mexico so Enoch can continue to live at home." I cannot imagine sending Fitz away to boarding school
Not that he would have the option of attending a fine arts academy, even if he was a brilliant visual artist like Enoch is.
The mob is nothing like the misogynistic cult Hope and her children escaped, but Fitz's future was set before his birth because of the family he was born into and the fact he was born first.
His brother and sisters will have more options open to them, but Fitz will be expected to get a degree in business because he will be boss one day. Thankfully, he's always shown a natural aptitude for leadership and logistics.
"She offered to go on her own and come back to Long Island for frequent visits." Mick's tone doesn't give away how he feels about that.
He probably doesn't care one way, or the other, but if it were me saying that? I'd end up tied to our bed until I promised to never, ever leave him.
Mmm. That could be fun.
"I bet that went over with my father as well as the time I told you I would move to Boston to be near Fitz if you sent him there to school."
"Pretty much, yeah." Mick's frown is way too ferocious for a memory from when our now middle schooler was just starting elementary school.
Especially when I never actually made the move. But even the idea of us separating temporarily is enough to trigger my husband's possessive, obsessive tendencies.
Yum.
"So, my father wants to retire?" Am I ready to be the boss's wife? For my husband to be the boss for one of the most powerful Irish mobs in the country, if not the world?
My father stepped back from a lot of the day-to-day mob business six years ago. But Brogan Shaughnessy is still the recognized boss and that means that certain things don't fall on Mick and the target on his back isn't as big.
That will change once he takes over.
"Aye. He'll keep his hand in the legitimate businesses working remotely from Santa Fe, but he's ready to hand over the reins."
I don't ask if my husband is ready to take them. Mick's driving motivation is to protect me and the children and he believes you protect best from a position of power.
Being the boss is something he wants. Not because he's power hungry, or needs the validation of the role. That's not how my sociopath works. But as the boss he will have full discretion over what our mob is involved in, who we take on as allies and how we respond to encroachment on our territory.
And he will be able to make the decisions that keep us safest. They aren't always the ones my father would agree are best for the mob.
My husband is not a diplomat. He's a destroy them now and deal with the fall out later kind of guy.
"Will you promote Brice to be your underboss?" The other Irishman has been Mick's top lieutenant since they came to New York together.
"Aye, but I'll be promoting Rory and Conor, among others. to positions with more responsibilities too."
Mick has always believed the mob should be run more like a business conglomerate, with CEOs, COOs and CFOs etc.
In the structure he favors, Mick is the chief executive officer with final say over everything.
His underboss is the chief operations officer and one of his other lieutenants would take on the role as chief financial officer.
"Who are you thinking of making CFO?" I ask, rocking a little because my body is way more interested in Mick's hardon than our discussion.
Rory is good with numbers, but not as good as Fiona. My sister got her degree in accounting online and has been working for Mick ever since. Too bad he can't give the job to her.
"Fiona."
"My sister?" I gasp. "But she's not made."
Not to mention she's still an extreme introvert. Therapy has helped my sister a lot, but she continues to get anxiety being around strangers and prefers to remain in the background.
Mick slides his hand up under my top, sending pleasure sparking along my nerve endings. "I want to structure the mob like a corporation, but we aren't one. She'll be my money man and on my council of advisors, but the role doesn't have to be front facing."
"Okay, sticking with the C level theme, who will be your Chief Security Officer?" I ask with a hitch in my breath as Mick's hand flicks open the front closure of my bra.
"In essence, Connor." Mick cups my breast and squeezes.
"That feels so good," I pant. "What about chief procurement officer?" I throw out the first C level that comes to mind as pleasure short circuits my brain.
"Rory," Mick answers without hesitation. "You haven't asked who will be COO yet."
He rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
My core clenching, I struggle to stay focused enough to talk. "That's Brice."
"No, a chroí, that's you."
That's so startling, it brings my focus zooming back. "But…" I blink at my husband. "I don't understand. Brice will be your underboss."
"He will be our underboss and Vice President of Operations for Shaughnessy Corp."
Because I'm Mick's queen and will rule beside him, not as his subordinate.
"I love you, Michael." I lean forward and press my lips to his, not needing to hear the words said back.
Because I know I am loved by this man so incapable of emotion with others.
Mick kisses me back, the passion he's kept banked during our discussion suddenly out of control as he eats at my mouth and thrusts his tongue inside. Determined hands strip my clothes off, our mouths parting only long enough for Mick to pull my top over my head.
I undo his pants and he lifts his hips so he can push his slacks and boxers down his thighs, but he doesn't finish taking them off.
Grasping his turgid flesh, I squeeze, filled with feminine satisfaction at his response to me.
But Mick pulls my hands away from him, guiding them behind my back.
I'm too busy kissing him to complain or ask what he's doing. I find out soon enough when he ties my wrists together with stretchy fabric. My underwear.
Mick breaks his mouth from mine and looks down at my naked breasts flushed with arousal and tipped with nipples as hard as diamonds. "Perfect."
I rock, sliding my intimate flesh against his hardon, spreading my arousal over him and teasing myself with a touch that sends jolts of bliss through me but is not enough to make me come.
Mick grips my hips and pushes me backward so even that stimulation is denied me.
I rip my lips from his. "Michael!"
It's a plea and a complaint.
But he's moved by neither. Emerald green eyes glitter back at me. "You will take what I give you."
Panting with need, I shake my head. "I want to touch you."
"You are touching me, a chiste is a stór. Here…" He brushes along where my thighs connect to his still fabric covered legs, but he spreads them a little so there's no chance my most sensitive flesh will come into contact with them.
"Please, Michael." My voice is drenched with the desire crashing through me in waves.
"And here." Cupping my face with both of his hands, Mick's mouth presses against mine, molding my lips and seeking entrance with his tongue.
Only when I give it does he release my face and slide those clever hands down my body, leaving a trail of pleasure in their wake.
It's a darn good thing we have the children's room monitoring systems set to let us know if one of them leaves their room is my last coherent thought for a while.
Mick kneads one breast while his other hand squeezes my backside, but every time I try to shift forward, he stops me.
My Irish sociopath plays my body like a virtuoso, making it sing with pleasure, but when he zeroes in on my nipples, the pleasure turns into a full orchestra.
He plucks. He pulls. He pinches. Then he spends long seconds feathering his fingertips over my aching flesh only to go back to stimulating them with harsher touches.
Whining against his lips, I cant my hips, finding no relief from the air moving along my nether lips.
But Mick's in no hurry to bring me completion.
Or he's determined to do it with nipple stimulation. He's done it before. Many times. I'm that sensitive.
But it takes a lot longer than when he massages my clit.
I don't want to wait and rip my mouth from his. "Plea—"
His mouth slams back against mine and he nips my lower lip in warning.
My whole body shudders and the feelings inside me ratchet higher and higher until he pinches my nipples harder than he has yet and my womb contracts in a heart stopping climax.
I'm still in the rictus of orgasm when he shifts my body and spears me with his oversized erection.
The sensation of tender flesh stretching to accommodate him prolongs the agony of pleasure rolling through me. My husband doesn't even give me a second to come down but starts thrusting upward, driving my ecstasy to the next level.
When one hand leaves my breast and slips down my body so he can press his middle finger against my pucker, I explode again, my husband's marauding mouth stifling my scream of joy.
Seconds later his hot cum bathes my insides as I flop forward, totally spent.
Holding me close, Mick rubs my back and brings me down from my orgasmic high.
We stay like that until I start to doze, not caring that my hands are still tied with my underwear. I think I'll just sleep like this.
But of course, Mick doesn't let me. He unties the underwear and massages my wrists while I'm in my semi-awake state before carrying me into our bathroom where he soaks with me in our oversized tub, the jets sending gentle bubbles over my super sensitized flesh.
I fall asleep before he carries me to bed, but I know he did, because when I wake up the next morning, that's where I am.
In my husband's arms.
Already awake, he smiles down at me. "Good moring, a chiste is a stór."
"It is because you're here." I say stuff like that now and Mick loves it.
Who knew sociopath, stalker husbands could crave praise?
But only from me. Mick is completely indifferent to the approval of others. Even his own parents and siblings.